Highway Patrolman
by GrimmjowsMaster-D.O.G
Summary: Okay, here we go, another one-shot. This is my first fic involving Ichigo and Hichigo and I’m really proud of it. This fic is done to the Bruce Springsteen song ‘Highway Patrolman’ and AU


**Author:** GrimmjowsMaster-D.O.G.-

**Rating: **T

**Warning: **Some language

_Okay, here we go, another one-shot. This is my first fic involving Ichigo and Hichigo and I'm really proud of it. I think I got Hichigo right, but I don't know, Ichigo might be a little OOC, so don't be mad if he is. This fic is done to the Bruce Springsteen song 'Highway Patrolman'. It's a really good song, just kinda has this thing about it that mesmerizes ya, so you should go check it out. In this fic, I never use any actual Bleach character's names, the only names that are used are from the song, but you should be able to figure out who we are talking about. Also, this story is an AU (alternate universe) just so ya know. Hope ya like._

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Bleach or its characters, Tite Kudo does. Nor do I own the song 'Highway Patrolman', Bruce Springsteen does. Also, I do not own the song 'Night of the Johnstown Flood', I don't know who exactly owns that but it's not me. So what do I own you may ask. I own this really cool/messed up idea to combine them all into on story.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx  
Family has you by an invisible leash that is called DNA

-unknown  
xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

**Highway Patrolman**

The bar stool gave out a pleading creak as the stout man in a patrolman's uniform eased his weight back onto it.

"Long day for you too, hun?" he mused to the stool before returning his gaze to the bar tender.

"Man strawberry, you look beat. Tuff day at work?" the redhead asked cheerily as he prepared the customer his usual.

"Nah, not really. Just the usual; two or three drunks decided to get behind the wheel, some punk tried to steel an old ladies purse, couple of speeders, a hand full of damned kids trying to get killed before they get the brains enough to know better, and to top it all off, one bar fight." Grabbing the glass that the redhead handed him, the orange-head chugged it down in one swift gulp, as if dieing of thirst. The man brushed some sweat away from his tattooed brow as he inspected his customer.

"Well that ain't that bad. Why you looking so tired over such an easy day?" The other opened his mouth to answer but was interrupted by a voice sounding quite boisterous, if not a bit tipsy, as it interjected.

"Didn't ya hear? It's all over town. At the bar fight, it was twelve verses one… all twelve had to go to the hospital and tat was only after the police dragged the other man off them. It took three cops to haul him off and the man didn't come out with so much as a scratch."

"Oh, Franky's back," The bar tender stated rather bemusingly as he poured their bald company another drink.

"Yep, just a few days ago," the newcomer continued. "Came back with a bunch of medals and three field promotions. The Generals were real disappointed to see him going, him being so 'good' at his job and all. You'd think he'd be in heaven over there gettin' to kill all the Conges he wanted ta, harass the native women, and gettin' paid and promoted for it to boot."

"Well, then why didn't he stay? Seems like he'd be pretty damn happy to me," the redhead asked while wiping off the counter top.

"Oh! You mean you haven't heard?!" Staring over the bald man's shoulder, the three watched the somewhat feminine man, whose purple hair seemed to take on a ruddier hue from the dim lightings of the tavern.

"Hear what?" the bartender asked. The man's eyes sparkled with a sort of mischievous enjoyment as he scooted in closer.

"Well, if you ask him, Franky will say he left because he was getting tired of always 'running around' and 'fighting only when they told him he could'. But the truth is he was about to be thrown out."

"Thrown out!? Franky!? No way! They'd never throw out their favorite killing machine."

"But they were."

"Come on, that's pretty hard to believe, even coming from you."

"Its true! They were going to throw him out because they couldn't control him. In battle, he wasn't just killing their soldiers. Oh no. Theirs, ours, civilians, bystanders, tanks, even his own commanding officer. Anything that got in his way, he cut it down. Didn't care what side it was on so long as it was alive when he started and was dead when he finished. And as you and I both know, he never was one to take orders obediently."

"Ya do got a point there."

"Haven't I!? Rumor has it he even massacred one of his entire regiments. Everyone, just because his commanding officer insisted he sit that battle out."

"So they decided the best thing for America would be to send him back here? What lame brain is in charge over there anyway!? If the army couldn't straighten him out any, what makes them think we can!?!" Glancing over at the weary patrolman, the redhead quickly regretted what he had said. The orange haired youth had become very quiet and uneasy, and the bar tender knew why.

"Hey, sorry, Joe. Didn't mean to say anything stupid like that in front of ya. I mean, you being the one to have ta deal with him and all." The three men watched the officer penitently as he took a swig of his drink.

"Nah, it's okay boys. Franky ain't no good . . . but what can I do… he's my brother."

_My name is Joe Roberts I work for the state  
I'm a sergeant out of Perrineville barracks number 8  
I always done an honest job as honest as I could  
I got a brother named Franky and Franky ain't no good  
_

"It's been like this ever since we were young kids. I'd get a call on the short wave, 'Franky's in trouble downtown'. You know how useless my old man was at disciplining Franky, and it always hurt ma' so much to see him get into all those fights. So naturally I was the one to always go bail him out. Figured maybe I could straighten him out, and that way also, Ma' wouldn't have ta know about all the scraps Franky would get inta." Mocha eyes glanced away from the others gaze, not wanting them to betray his disappointment.

"Ya shoulda known, ya can't protect him forever," the bald man stabbed.

"Yeah. Sooner or later a man's got to take responsibility for his actions," the redhead added.

"It's not like it's all his fault," the officer shot defensively, unconsciously tightening the grip on his glass. "Ever since he was young he's had to fight. Everyone was always pickin' on him cause o' the way he looked. Even you guys used to bully him because of it." All three lowered their heads in slight shame, sheepishly unwilling to meet their friend's stare.

"Yeah' but man, ya gotta admit, for someone to have skin that white… it ain't natural. Kinda scared me when I was a kid. Still kinda freaks me out now, if in I run into him after dark or by surprise," the bald man explained while leaning on his companion for support.

"…I always saw his black eyes, with the golden centers, and thought they were beautiful. Was always really rather jealous of them…" the usually bubbly man stated somberly.

"Guess we all just heard all the adults talking about what a-…" the bar tender paused, only to continue in a hushed voice as if through apprehension, "what a 'freak' he was, and you know kids, they'll believe whatever their parents tell them. He was different, we didn't understand him, and humans fear what they don't understand."

"And that gave you the right to bully him!?!" All three flinched as the youth raised his voice. "He used to be a crybaby, always hid behind me and Mom! But then everyone started picking on him and that's how he became the way he is. It was you all that made him this way!"

"Wwoahh. Easy there. It's not like we meant to and you know that," the redhead defended. "anyway, what's done is done. Who's to blame. How he turned out this way. None o' that matters. The real question is… what are you going to do about him?" All three watched him intently, silence hanging about them as if the very room was waiting to hear the man's answer.

With a weighted sigh, the orange-haired officer let his shoulders fall to a slump, dropping his head to bury his face into the palm of his calloused hands.

"If this was any other punk, I'd put him straight away… But when it's your brother, sometimes you look the other way."

_Now ever since we was young kids it's been the same come down  
I get a call over the radio Franky's in trouble downtown  
Well if it was any other man, I'd put him straight away  
But when it's your brother sometimes you look the other way  
_

Turning on the bar stool, the officer surveyed the almost empty bar. Aside from the few lingerers scattered amongst the many tables and up turned chairs that said stands boar, the vast pub was placid and still. But as if to a melody all their own, fanciful elusions came to dance in the young law man's eyes. Images of twirling figures, hearty laughter, remote gaieties, friends and family all come to join in jubilation, consumed by wisps of euphoria that filled one's senses like a haze of ecstasy. Memories of past, dreams of future, hope for the present.

"Franky never was that graceful on the floor." The officer chuckled to himself, earning him quizzical looks from his companions.

"Wha's ya talkin' 'bout, strawberry?" the bald friend asked. The youth started, as if pulled from a deep sleep.

"Hu-hun? Oh, nothing. Just remembering all the good times we've had here. Laughing and drinking, I miss the good old days with Franky. Remember how we always use to take turns dancing with Maria?"

"How could we forget?" the bartender exclaimed. "You two used to get so drunk that when ya went to cut in, ya would start dancing with each other, you couldn't even tell the difference." A light laughter pervaded the group as they reminisced over old times.

"Yeah, you would always end up taking him home before he could start any real fights," the bald man chuckled, the image of the two drunken brothers staggering off into the night popping into his head.

"Hey, I was just keeping him in line, like any brother would," the orange-haired officer shrugged modestly.

"Not any brother," the chipper raven-haired man reminded. "Maria's older brother sure didn't come to her rescue when her bank, the Soul Society, came to collect. The poor dear."

"He always was a bit stuck up, that one," the bartender agreed.

"What a dirt bag," the officer grumbled. "A man turns his back on his family, he just ain't no good."

_Me and Franky laughin' and drinkin' nothin' feels better than blood on blood  
Takin' turns dancin' with Maria as the band played "Night of the Johnstown Flood"  
I catch him when he's strayin' like any brother would  
Man turns his back on his family well he just ain't no good_

"Speakin' of, how is that lovely lady of yours?" the redhead asked mischievously.

"Maria's doing just fine. She worries a bit about me taking up this job and all, but hey, she'll just have to come to terms with it. I mean, money's scarce around here for everyone. How else was I to make ends meet?" the young officer stated rather casually.

"Yeah, I get where you're coming from. My profits are down 30% from last month," the bartender sympathized. "Wives just don't understand that stuff. They aren't the ones making the money, they're just the ones who spend it." Again the group broke into hearty laughter.

"Say, isn't it your anniversary next month? How longs it been since you and Maria finally settled down?" the more feminine of the four asked respectfully.

"Lets see… It's been three years. 1965," he replied, remembering the number instantly, but trying to sound more laid back about it around his bachelor comrades.

"Jeez, you're a bit slow, aren't cha?" the redheaded bartender snickered as he filled another glass for the already drunk bald man.

"Huh, what do you mean by that?" the youth asked naively.

"Come on. Three years and you still don't have any little strawberries running around? I'm surprised Maria hasn't taken charge already." The bald drunk next to the officer snickered as he about fell off his stool, his feminine friend helping him maintain his balance. The young officer blushed slightly, embarrassed by such a private matter being addressed in public.

"Well, we're kinda waiting. We don't think we're ready to have kids, fanatically anyway," he explained, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

"Come on… man… ya can admi- admu- adnu- ah, tell us," the drunk encouraged, his words slurred as they desperately attempted to leave him mouth intact. "Ya're afraid ya ain't man enough. Can't says I blame… ya. That's one hell o' a wo-man ya got."

"Oi, shut up!" the youth snapped, blushing furiously.

"1965 huh? Why does that date sound familiar?" the feminine man pondered curiously. The orange-haired officer looked up with a confused expression as he studied his friend.

"Don't ya remember? That was the year Franky went into the army." Everyone went silent, a sudden awkwardness coming to take hold of them. It was several minutes before one of them spoke again.

"That's right. After he left, you settled down with Maria and got yourself that farm," the redhead stated abruptly.

"Yeah, things were pretty good till wheat prices started dropping. I swear, it was like we were getting robbed," he groaned, rolling his eyes as he remembered the hassle that had been. "Then Franky came back and I took this job."

"Well, you are the only one he will listen to," the feminine man noted.

_Well Franky went in the army back in 1965 I got a farm deferment settled down took Maria for my wife  
But them wheat prices kept on droppin' till it was like we were gettin' robbed  
Franky came home in '68 and me I took this job_

"Yeah," he answered with a somewhat forlorn look in his eyes. "Sometimes I wish I could go back to those days, when it was just Franky and me against the world. The parties, the fun times, when our biggest worry was staying sober enough not to step on Maria's feet," he added with a ghostly chuckle.

_Yea we're laughin' and drinkin' nothin' feels better than blood on blood  
Takin' turns dancin' with Maria as the band played "Night of the Johnstown Flood"  
I catch him when he's strayin', teach him how to walk that line  
Man turns his back on his family he ain't no friend of mine  
_

The crackling of radio static suddenly broke the silence as a call came in on the small walky-talky on the officer's belt.

"Attention any available officers. We've got trouble and need back-up." The youth snatched up the small device in a flash, recognizing the voice even through the static.

"Oi, Shorty? Whacha got?" he asked, his expression stern and serious, not a hint of his former melancholy present on his face. The bodiless voice came back, though sounding slightly peeved, and clarified the situation.

"Another bar fight. Two men and a woman. It's bad. Never thought three people could cause so much damage," the voice stated mutely, perfectly conveying the severity of the situation.

"What's your location?" the orange-haired patrolman stated, the words coming out of repetition.

"A roadhouse on the Michigan line. Hat&Clog's place. You know it?" T

he youth recognized the name, he had passed by the establishment several times before on his way to wherever it was his work needed him. It was a shop of sorts that specialized in strange and exotic merchandise. It was quite the anomaly in a town as placid and old fashioned as theirs.

Still though, not many people around here cared for the strange and peculiar. It was like an unspoken rule that that sort of thing was taboo. So the shopkeeper had to find another way of bringing in business, and boy had he.

The blond shopkeeper, who the young officer considered mad in his own right, had opened a bar. But this was no ordinary bar, this bar had women, strange, beautiful, exotic, intoxicating women. Not to say that these were trampy women, like the ones you would find on street corners or who hung around bars and performed vulgar acts for a few measly buck. Those kinds were defiantly not accepted here.

No, these women had class and dignity. The kind that wouldn't tolerate a drunken fool whispering lewd things in their ear. These enthralling females came from all over the world, each with the mind, body, and attribute of a goddess.

Some had willowy forms, like dangerous jungle cats, their skin dark and their eyes sharp. Some were delicate and pale, quite prim and proper as they dressed in elegant gowns of silk. Others seemed to rely more heavily on their intellectual abilities, though their bodies weren't something to scoff at either.

He had never been there himself; being a married man. He didn't need temptations. Besides, people had a tendency to talk. These woman captivated the men of the town. Even the most rambunctious men, the kind you thought would never settle down, would court these woman persistently. At the thought of this, the officer was reminded of an old American proverb; 'A man chases a woman until she catches him'.

Nonetheless, he had always wondered why, if these women were so upstanding and incorruptible, why were they working at the strange shopkeeper's bar? Wasn't that just barrowing trouble? The answer had revealed itself to him one night while talking to his friends at the bar, on a night such as this.

The women were immigrants, coming from places spanning the four corners of the globe. Many of them were nobility in their own right, some even princesses of their tribes back home. In spite of this, for whatever reason, they had come here to this foreign land, each having their own motive, none revealing them. The shopkeeper, being a collector of the extraordinary and glamorous, had not hesitated to make them an offer they couldn't refuse.

He would provide them with a place to stay, somewhere they would be treated decently and be fed as well as supplied with other necessities. In return, they would work at his bar, bringing in and entertaining customers as well as serving drinks. He assured them this was not going to turn into a brothel and that if any of the men started getting 'frisky' he would have them thrown out immediately.

Also, he wanted them to showcase their outstanding rituals from their strange lands. This idea manifested itself into a performance. Some of the women did cultural dances from their home land, some demonstrated their artistic skills, others charmed bizarre animals. One, who was considered a goddess by her village, was even able to control water. It had been a hit. The men loved it and the women got to work.

It also seemed to comfort them to have others around them that stood out as much as they. The females had even come to form a close "tribe". People called it that for lack of a better word. They took care of each other and watched out for the newcomers that were recruited and the younger girls.

The establishment was in no way scandalous, it was just different. Many of the woman even got into honest respectable relationships with a few of the customers. The shopkeeper himself was currently falling hard for a dark skinned dancer who was believed to be the embodiment of a cat god in her home tribe. It had even been said that one or two of the woman had settled down with some of the men they had met at the bar, and were now living happy lives with a family.

"Yeah, I know it," the young patrolman responded, standing from his seat. "I'll be their in a minute." Clipping the radio to his belt, the youth glanced at the clock, thirteen till nine, before looked apologetically at his friends. "Sorry guys. I gotta go."

"Hey, duty calls," the bartender smirked as he raised his hand in a mock salute which made the other grin.

"Be seeing ya around." He waved goodbye before running out and hopping into his car. It didn't take long for him to reach the destination. The large building wasn't much to look at from the outside, but once he entered, a diversity of flashy colors and a multitude of fantastic appearances assaulted his eyes.

Nothing matched, nothing made sense, nothing was recognizable, nothing was familiar, yet it all fit so perfectly. Tapestries with rich colors and dream catchers of all sizes littered the walls along with an assortment of masks and feathers and thing the youth could not identify. Misshapen sculptures and outlandish looming objects scattered all about the room. Many other oddities were crowded into the space, but the officer was to busy concentrating on the scene before him to notice.

His captain, a short child protégée, younger than him, stood talking to the shopkeeper, combing his white hair back in frustration. As the orange-haired patrolman approached them, he managed to catch some of their conversation.

"So, he started it?" the captain asked irritably.

"Yeah," the blond shopkeeper replied, fanning himself with a paper-fan. "She's been seeing this one for a long time now." He nodded towards something on the floor a way's off. "and when _he_ started coming on to her, well, being her boa, of course he was going to step in. But _he_ wouldn't back down."

"That's when the fight started," the white haired officer interjected. The shopkeeper nodded.

"Where she comes from, the women are trained as warriors and are taught to stand behind their men no matter what."

"So she joined the brawl to defend him?" Another nod. "Jeez, what a mess. Oh, hey, Joe. When'd you get here?" his captain asked, addressing him as he came to gaze down at him. "Never mind, that's not important right now. Follow me." He did as ordered, walking behind his short superior. Things were throne around and broken across the floor, tables overturned and chairs scattered everywhere. Shattered glass was scattered about and different masks and costume accessories could be found lying to and froe.

"You can probably guess what happened," the captain stated, not really looking for an answer, but getting one just the same.

"I got the gist of it." They came up to a spot where several other officers were huddling over something on the floor. Here his commanding officer stopped, staring down at the group as he waited, he didn't have to wait long.

All but one of the men got up and moved away, going to take care of other matters or talk to witnesses. Lying there on the ground was a man. His well built torso was revealed by his unbuttoned denim shirt, his cuffs undone and the fabric worn. His long legs were sprawled out across the oak floor, his jeans faded and mud splattered. His eyes were closed tight, face contorted in slight pain.

The man's hair was red, wait, no, blue. It was blue, the red tinting coming from the blood that seeped down from the grotesque gash in his head. It was bleeding badly, horribly even. The one officer tended to him as best he could, though it was obvious he was new to this sort of thing.

Next to the unconscious man, there was a woman. She sat in a chair by one of the tables, leaning over, she clutched the man's hand, holding it as if letting go would kill him. Her hair was a beautiful ruby color, tied into a bun to the side with fiery flowers tucked into it. Her hair was slightly askew, however, evidence of some struggle.

The woman's eyes were just as red as her hair, though they seemed distant and unearthly at the moment as they watched the man's expression intently. Tears filled her eyes and overflowed down her cheeks, yet she cried silently, never once giving a sob or letting her form so much as quiver. Her skin was slightly sun kissed, as was his, though hers had more of a smooth luster, whereas his looked like the skin of a man that's known hard work.

The youth had seen them around, they could often be caught sneaking a midnight stroll along the river bank or holding hands through the park. The man had been quite the trouble maker for some years, but rumor had it that this savage beauty had managed to tame the beast within him. Seeing them together had reminded the young officer of himself and Maria in their younger days. No one thought that this teal haired renegade would really stick with her once he got what he wanted, but they had proved them all wrong when three months ago he had popped the question. They had planned to get married in a month, then she would move in with him and quit her work at the bar.

"Will he make it?" the young patrolman heard himself ask his captain. His superior passed him a sorrowful glance before returning his gaze to the bleeding man.

"We don't know. The doctor's on his way, but his head is bleeding pretty badly. We can't seem to stop it." The orange-haired youth clenched his fist, feeling the muscles in his arms and shoulders clench up.

"Did _he_ do this?" His captain gave him a quizzical look. "Did he do this?" he repeated, this time more urgently, "Did Franky do this!?"

The white-haired boy closed his eyes, pausing a moment before giving a slow nod.

The patrolman felt something snap inside of him. With a growl, he turned, bolting from the scene. His captain called after him, but he didn't hear him. Bursting out the front doors, he searched for his car. Finding it, he dashed to it, slamming into the door as he fumbled with the keys.

With a click, the door unlocked and the officer immediately flung it open, about taking it off its hinges. Jumping into the drivers seat, he slammed the door, starting the car with a threatening roar of the engine, and, flipping on the headlights, sped off. Swerving around curves, speeding through stop signs, barely making turns, he tor through Michigan county at night. He knew he had to be doing 110, but he didn't care.

_The night was like any other, I got a call 'bout quarter to nine  
There was trouble in a roadhouse out on the Michigan line  
There was a kid lyin' on the floor lookin' bad, bleedin' hard from his head there was a girl cryin' at a table, it was Frank they said  
Well I went out and I jumped in my car and I hit the lights  
I must of done 110 through Michigan county that night_

Following the dark strip ahead of him, the officer's brown eyes jerked around as they searched relentlessly. There was no real direction to his quest, just a frantic immediacy. He didn't know how long he looked, time was just a blur that flew by as his car sped along.

It was down at the crossroads that he that he spotted it. A Buick, dark blue to match the night sky, its white Ohio plates standing out against the dark paint job. It was speeding down the road, a trail of dust billowing up behind it as it sped along. The headlights weren't on and none of lights were on inside the car.

The patrolman had to strain his eyes to make out the figure on the inside, but the paper white skin against the black shadows of the cars interior contrasted so greatly that it was impossible not to recognize the driver. Up about forty yards ahead of the patrol car was the Buick, behind the wheel was Frank.

He must have spotted the patrol car, cause as soon as he reached the crossroads, he slammed on his brakes, swerving to barely make the turn before flooring it. The youth didn't know if Franky knew it was him or was simply running from the patrol car, nor did he care. Anger consumed him as he stomped down on the gas with all he had. The car gave a lurch before speeding forward with a roar of the engine.

The two tor down the county roads; luckily, no one else seemed to be out that night. The whole time, the officer was right on his brother's heals. His patrol car was faster, but Franky was better at making hairpin turns and had the advantage of setting the path. He had no clue what street they were on, or even what direction they were headed in, all the orange-haired man could concentrate on was catching his brother.

Memories flashed through his mind like lightning, one after the other. Him and Franky growing up. Him and Franky going to school. Him and Franky at their mom's funeral. Them at high school, Franky on the football team, Franky dropping out, him hiding it from their father, Franky learning to drive, Franky dancing with Maria, Franky going off to war. Franky and him back to back against the odds, Franky laughing, his crooked little grin, his malicious smile, the apologetic look he would give after he bailed him out. He saw it all so vividly in his mind, all the feelings he had had for his brother over the years were dragged up and converted to a blinding rage that beat at pace with the roar of the engine.

As he sped along the dirt road, a glint of white caught his eye off the side of the road as his headlights reflected off it. He barely had time to read the sign before it whipped past him in a blur.

'Canadian border 5 miles from here'

Suddenly it clicked in his mind. If Franky crossed into Canada, he couldn't pursue him. He would be beyond his jurisdiction.

He felt himself being pulled two different ways, he could either continue after Franky and possibly catch him, or pull over. He had to decide now. A thousand thoughts flashed through his mind. His job, his wife, his friends, what would happen if he continued chasing after Franky? Franky, his brother, all the times he had tried to set him straight, all the fights, the man bleeding on the floor, the woman crying as she sat over him, holding his hand as if for dear life.

His body acted before his mind realized it, slamming the petal. Everything seemed to stand still, though he knew he was still moving. In a haze, he found himself getting out of the car. He was along the side of the highway and all he could do was stand there by his car and watch as Franky's taillights disappeared, slowly fading away into the distance.

_It was out at the crossroads down round Willow bank  
Seen a Buick with Ohio plates behind the wheel was Frank  
Well I chased him through them county roads till a sign said Canadian border 5 miles from here  
I pulled over the side of the highway and watched his taillights disappear _

For a moment, everything was still inside the man. He just stood there, watching the spot Franky's taillights had been, thought they were now long gone. Then, like a burst of gun powder, it all came out.

"GOD DAMN IT!!!" He slammed the car door shut, the windows rattling from the force. With another lowed curse, he slammed his fists down on the roof of the car, two dents forming under his hands as he lowered his head. Fire was pumped through his veins as an unappeasable rage took over.

"Franky, you bastard!!" Turning, he kicked the car tire as hard as he could. Not the smartest thing to do.

His foot hurt like hell, but his anger drowned it out. It boiled and churned inside of him, feeding off itself as it grew. Just as he felt his fury reach its peak, it disappeared, just dwindled away like rain blown from a car window shield.

A dense ache filled his heart and he felt tears come to his eyes. His legs went weak, he couldn't stand. Sliding down along the car, he slumped against it as he sat on the cold dirt of the Michigan highway. An unreal numbness consumed him, his breathing heavy and shallow. The world was spinning around him, and he couldn't stop it.

This was it. Franky was gone. He had tried so hard for so long to set him straight, and this was how it ended, on an old dirt road near the Michigan border. Bowing his head, he covered his face with his hands, weeping bitterly. His frame gave a slight tremor as his emotions sought to drown him.

A picture of a young, white skinned boy flashed through the officer's mind. Franky had always been such a care free child, till the other kids had started picking on him. He really wasn't all that bad, he was just different, and people in this town didn't like different. It wasn't his fault, they had never accepted him, they had forced him into what he was. They had taught him that he had to fight to survive; it was their fault, all their fault.

A few spare tunes slipped their way out of the patrolman's quivering lips. It was a somber, almost morbid melody, one that fit the way he felt all to well, one he had heard a thousand times before and knew by heart.

"On a b-balmy day in May… when nature held full sway…" he began shakily, the words coming like his tears, easily and without a second thought. "And the birds sang sweetly in- the sky above, A city lay serene, in a valley deep an- green, Where thousands dwelt in h-happiness… and love," his voice trembled as he worded the lyrics, hugging himself tightly as he closed his eyes against the tears.

"Ah," he stated in a mock chuckle. "but soon the scene was changed, For just like a thing deranged, A storm came crashing… through the quiet town, Now the wind- it raved and shrieked, Thunder rolled and lighting- streaked…" a sob escaped the man as his head fell back against the car, his eyes opening to look blankly up at the night sky. "But the rain it poured in awful torrents… down." Stifling another sob, the man hugged himself tighter as his body shook with the effort of restrain his emotions.

"Now the cry of distress… rings from East to West- And our whole dear country- now plunged in woe, For the thousands burned and- drowned, In the city of Johnstown… All were lost in that great overflow…" a ghostly chuckle escaped him, a phantom smile curling about his lips. "Why, Franky, does that song come to mind, when you're the only one I've lost?" It was a sickly question, a sort of cruel humor that was ill suited for the moment, but came about anyway.

His throat was soar and his eyes hurt, his head was throbbing and the cold wasn't helping any, but he was too wrapped in all that had happened to notice, let alone do anything about it. The sky continued to darken as more and more stars steadily began to appear in the heavens. A light breeze blew that evening, barely strong enough to rustle the officer's spiky orange hair, but bitter enough to chill his skin. He probably would have noticed that his fingers were beginning to lose feeling, but a more solemn numbness had already overwhelmed his being, rooting itself much deeper than just physical means.

How long he laid there, he never knew. The cold Michigan night chilled him, but the youth hardly took notice. For all he knew, someone may have passed by or his captain could have radioed him, he was too wrapped up in his thoughts to notice. A strange clarity had come over his mind and, for a moment, everything was black and white.

Franky. It had been Franky all along. There was no one with whom he was closer to. He was all the family he had left. In this provincial town, where everything changed yet everything stayed the same, there had been one thing he could always count on and that was Franky. He had always been there for him, through thick and thin.

Franky was the one person he could call, it didn't matter the time or place, and be sure he would drop everything and rush over to be there for him. Everyone else may have frowned on him, but that was only cause they couldn't see what a good person he was on the inside. Because of them, he thought he had to fight for anything he wanted, it was they who had carved out his animalistic instincts. Because of them… Franky was gone.

"Dear lord," he whispered, closing his eyes with his face turned up towards the heavens, "Please forgive him… and me… I know I should have made him take responsibility for his actions a long time ago, but… he's my brother… A man turns his back on his family, well, he just ain't no good."

_Me and Franky laughin' and drinkin' nothin' feels better than blood on blood  
Takin' turns dancin' with Maria as the band played "Night of the Johnstown Flood"  
I catch him when he's strayin' like any brother would  
Man turns his back on his family well he just ain't no good_

_xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx_

It must have been around midnight when the officer finally moved. He gave a low groan, his muscles sore and stiff from sitting unmoving in the cold for so long. As he rose to a standing position, he felt a weariness come about him that hadn't been previously noticed.

Leaning against his patrol car, his eyes strained to see the lights of the town way off in the distance. It gave a faint and eerie glow against the darkness of the night sky and seemed farther away now than it had ever been.

Usually the thought of returning home, to his beautiful wife and a nice hot meal in his warm cozy and familiar house would be quite appealing to the youth, but not tonight. Thinking on it now, the whole scene seemed almost alien to him, maybe even excited something in him akin to disgust. It just didn't feel right, it was missing the key component that made the quiet town his home. It was missing the one commotion, the one ruckus, the one rabble-rouser that made all those quiet days mean something. Franky was that indeed.

With his white skin and black eyes, he was unique, and in more ways than just his looks. Things never got dull with Franky around, he never was one to settle for the 'quiet' life. He had always been able to bring a smile to his orange-haired brother's face. Going back now, without him, it just didn't feel right. Would he ever be able to smile again now?

Something in the officer's stomach knotted at the idea of giving the others the news. Oh, they'd pretend to be upset for his sake. Comfort him, try and tell him it was for the best, but he knew what they were all thinking. They were glad to see him gone. They would celebrate his departure each to themselves, thanking the lord they were rid of him. They would act sorrowful to his face, but when at home, safe behind their locked doors and closed windows, they would be in jubilation.

The wives would whisper about how bad Franky was in stores and over fences. Husbands would raise a toast in the bars, buying a round for everyone and their cousin just to celebrate. The children would talk freely about it, of course; they didn't know any better beyond what their parents told them, but still, Franky had always frightened them.

None of them cared. Only him. He, Joe Roberts, son of a farm girl and the local doctor, was the only one in the world who cared what happened to Franky Roberts.

Maybe it was a good thing he hadn't caught Franky; God only knew what they would have done to him if they had gotten their hands on him. When he was born, the nurse maid had thought he was a demon, and gone to get the local priest, saying that the child had to be exercised. What with his snow white skin, gold eyes with the whites turned black, and a blue tongue, many other adults had agreed. Ever since then, everyone had treated him differently; acting like it was a sin to be born unique. They were just looking for an excuse to hang him.

The man felt his stomach begin to climb up to his throat as the image of Franky swinging lifelessly to and froe from the old oak tree came all to vividly into his mind.

Shivering, he did his best to shake the image out of his head as he opened the car door. He was dreading the trip back, but knew it was one he had to make.

As he moved to get into the car, he heard a noise off in the distance. It was faint at first, he could barely make it out, but then it began to grow louder. It sounded like the clanging of metal much like an old car would make. He looked to his left to see two headlights off in the distance. Not paying the approaching vehicle much thought, the officer pulled himself into the car, and slammed the door behind him.

He had never turned the car off, so when he got in it was already on and in neutral. The windows where partially rolled down, so he could hear the other car as it approached, but he didn't really listen. The youth was already deep in thought when someone knocked at his window, causing him to jump.

"Oi, officer, would ya mind answerin' a question for me?" a gruff voice asked through the slit the opened window formed.

"Oh, uh, sure. What's the problem?" the youth stuttered, some what flustered at being caught off guard.

"Oh, no problem," the voice snickered, reverting from its gruff tone to a bizarre, almost matronic sound. "Just wanted to ask ya, what's the difference between a patrolman… and his horse?" The orange-haired man froze, his heart skipping a beat as his face visibly paled.

In a flash, he threw the car door open, leapt out of the vehicle and whirled around to face the smirking figure.

"Franky!?"

It was like looking into a mirror. Though their eyes, hair color, skin tone, and clothes didn't match, their anatomical structure was pretty much exactly alike. Franky wore his usual slinky grin, his golden black eyes glossy as they stood out against his pail albino skin. His white denim shirt and worn faded blue jeans contrasted his brothers black patrolman's uniform; ironic, considering Franky was the 'black sheep' of the family.

His hands were stuffed in his pockets, head tilted slightly as he watched his brother. With his shoulders slumped and one leg cocked, he obviously wasn't to concerned with the fact that his brother was an officer whose duty was to bring him in. Franky's eyes glinted in the dark as he snickered at the look on the other's face.

"What's the matter, officer? Ya look like ya've seen a ghost," he chuckled almost mockingly, something he did often.

"F-Franky? What are you doing back? Weren't you going to run off to Canada? Escape your crime?" the patrolman asked in bewilderment.

"Eh, I thought about it, but I just couldn't leave ya here. Man turns his back on his family, well, he just ain't no good," the albino replied with a shrug of his shoulders. The officer was stunned; he didn't know how to respond. He had tried for so long to teach his brother right from wrong; he had never expected that to be one of, if not the only, moral he picked up from him. Part of him was comforted by this, another more conflicted then ever.

"So, what, are you going to come back and serve your sentence? You can't! They'll hang you for sure-"

"Yeah, right," his brother scoffed, "Like I would do something dumb like that." shooting his brother a mischievous grin, the albino chuckled at the man's puzzled expression.

"Then what are you doing back here?" the officer asked, pure uncertainty written all over his face. The other looked off in direction of the small town, shrugging his shoulders in an attempt to appear nonchalant.

"I just thought I'd come back… and ask if you wanted to come along with me." His tone was indifferent, all the while watching his brother from the corner of his eye. Though he may not have said it, the patrolman could tell just by looking in his eyes that Franky was anxious for his answer. Those orbs, like two pools of molten gold, held something the officer had never seen in them before; hope.

The patrolman stopped, a sort of detached mystification growing inside him as his brother's words sunk in. His first instinct was to yell at the man, remind his trouble making brother that he couldn't do that and reprimand him for even suggesting such a thing. Only, after he had resisted that urge, there was a storm cloud of uncertainty swirling about inside him.

What would he do? Either way he stood to loose something of great value to him, and keep something he treasured. If he went, he would lose his job, his wife, his friends, his land, his honor, his respect, not to mention be considered a traitor by almost everyone he had ever knew. Was it really worth it to sacrifice all that, just for one man? One man who had always caused trouble for him, one man who had never followed the rules. The very man that could have caused the death of another tonight.

Was it really worth braking Maria's heart, disappointing his friends, his comrades in arms? He would bring shame to his family name. What would his parents think? How could he do all that, just for Franky? But then he thought about life without Franky.

How could he live with the guilt of Franky's death being on his hands? Live every day knowing he betrayed his own brother, sold him out. Or, even if he didn't take Franky back with him, even if he just let him escape to Canada, how could he go through the rest of his life, waking up every morning wondering if Franky was still alive.

The trouble maker had always needed someone to look out for him, to catch him when he fell. Franky just couldn't make it on his own. He knew his brother better than any, knew that underneath all that strength, under his short temper, under that malicious grin, there was still a sliver of that little cry baby who used to hide behind his brother when the neighborhood children would call him a demon child. Franky needed him, and, deep down, he knew a part of him needed Franky.

Looking up, his gaze met his brother's, the silence defining as the albino waited for an answer. His face was blank, one of the few times the officer had seen him without his trademark sneer overtaking his face. Franky just stood there, his expression mute as he stared into his brother's chocolate eyes, his lack of emotion just as unnerving as his usual look of insanity. Letting out a weary sigh, the orange-haired youth closed his eyes, bowing his head as he prepared to pass the point of no return.

"All right," he stated, the seriousness in his tone making it clear he had made up his mind. "I'll go with you." Franky's grin grew to stretch from ear to ear as his eyes met his brothers, a maniacal glee flickering through them as he cackled.

"I knew ya'd see it my way. Now come on, if ya've really been sitting out here all this time, they'll be sending someone soon to see what's happened to ya." Turning around, the albino waved his arm, signaling for the other to follow him as he strutted towards his car.

"All right, but I drive. I don't trust you behind the wheel when you have this much adrenalin pumping through you." He heard his brother snicker at the remark before walking around to the other side of the car and getting in on the passenger's side. Walking over, the orange-haired youth took the dark blue handle of the car door in his hand. It felt cool against his skin, sending a slight jolt of excitement through him. Opening the door, he slid in, the seat molding to his shape as he placed his weight on it.

"The keys are already in the ignition. I didn't turn the car off," Franky sneered, resting his arms behind his head as he leaned back in his seat. The officer shot his brother a dirty look, scowling at the face the other made in return.

Turning his attention back to the steering wheel, the man reached up with cold hands to clasp the steering devise, feeling as though it was his first time behind the wheel. Releasing a breath he didn't even know he was holding, he put the car in drive, and tapped the gas. As the car began to roll forward, the orange-haired youth cut the wheel a hard left, turning the car so it now faced away from the town, and the past, they would be leaving behind.

Franky remained silent the whole time, but the officer didn't have to look over to know he had an insane grin plastered all over his face, his golden eyes alight with exhilaration. Situating his foot on the gas, he gradually began to increase the amount of force placed on the petal as the wheels began to spin faster and faster.

He never looked back, never glanced in the rearview mirror, just kept rolling down that strip of highway in front of him. Everything was back to the way it should be. Him and Franky against the world, two brothers, back to back.

Franky was prattling on in the seat next to him about his plans and how he wished he could see the looks on everyone's faces when they got the news, but his brother wasn't listening. With every mile that grew between him and that town, he felt more and more liberated. No guilt, no regrets, he felt free, like some great chain he never knew was there had been cast from him and it was all thanks to Franky.

He couldn't say what he did was right, but whatever the consequences, he could live with them. It would be just him and Franky, laughing and drinking, nothing felt better than blood on blood. This is the way it would always be, this was the only way he knew, and right then, with the cover of night to hide them, and the Michigan road to guide them, he felt he could look God straight in the eyes and tell him he was proud to call Franky his brother.

_Well, there it is. The ending segment I just kinda added in myself because I could just picture Hichigo(Franky) coming back for Ichi. Incase I didn't make it clear, which, looking back now, I don't think I did, Maria, Ichigo's(Joe) wife, was Rukia. There was also a reference to Byakuya in there, incase you didn't catch that. By the way, yes, that was Grimmjaw lying on the floor bleeding from his head. My poor Grimm-kitty! –turns in direction Hichigo ran off in- "Yeah, that's right! Ya better run!!" But anyway, please, please, please review. I am extra excited to hear what you thought. Thank you for reading. Hope you enjoyed._


End file.
